"Don't talk," I instruct, focusing on my work. "Save your energy."
He's different from what I expected when he first stumbled in. Most inmates would be howling in pain from a wound like this, especially without an anesthetic. But he lies perfectly still, only the occasional tightening around his eyes revealing his discomfort.
I've been the night nurse at Pine Haven Correctional for eleven months now. Long enough to learn which inmates to fear and which ones keep to themselves.
I've seen this one before—tall, muscled, with intricate tattoos covering most of his visible skin. Dark hair kept short, regulation style. Multiple scars telling stories of past fights. But I don't know his name or his story. I've treated him once before for a split knuckle, but he barely spoke then.
He's watching me now, his dark eyes surprisingly clear despite the blood loss. I keep my face professional, hiding my fear. Not of him, strangely enough, but of the chaos outside this door. The sounds of the riot echo through the building: shouts, crashes, occasional screams. The infirmary door isn't secure. Anyone could walk in at any moment.
"Almost done with the deep layer," I tell him, my fingers working methodically despite my racing heart. "You're doing well."
He grunts in response, a bead of sweat trailing down his temple. His skin is too pale. I need to get fluids into him soon.
The fluorescent lights flicker overhead, and I hold my breath, praying they stay on. Stitching by emergency lighting would be a nightmare.
"Why are you still here?" he asks suddenly, his voice low and rough. "Why didn't you run when this started?"
I tie off another stitch before answering. "Run where? The exit is through that riot. Besides, this is my job."
"Your job isn't to die for inmates."
I meet his eyes briefly. "My job is to save lives. No matter whose."
"You're good at this," he observes.
"I should be. I've had plenty of practice in here." I reach for fresh gauze to wipe away blood that's welling up around my work. "I need your name for my report."
It's a lie. There won't be any reports today, not with the prison in chaos. But I want to know who I'm treating, who I'm risking my safety for.
He hesitates, then says, "Thompson. James Thompson."
"I'm Rebecca. Rebecca Johnson."
A crash somewhere down the hall makes me jump, the needle jerking in my hand. James doesn't flinch.
"They're getting closer," he says.
My hands start to tremble slightly. I force them to steady. "I need to finish this."
"Then hurry." His eyes flick to the door. "We can't stay here."
"You can't move yet. You've lost too much blood."
"We don't have a choice, Rebecca."
My name in his mouth sounds strange. Intimate somehow, despite our circumstances.
I finish the internal stitching and move to the external layer. The wound is long, requiring dozens of neat, tight stitches. Under normal conditions, I'd take my time, ensuring minimal scarring. Now, I work as fast as accuracy allows.
"Why were those men after you?" I ask, partly to distract myself from the sounds drawing nearer, partly out of genuine curiosity.
"I told you, I don't know." He winces as I pull a stitch tight. "I've never had trouble with the Irish before. I keep to myself in here."
"You said you're getting out in three days?"
"That's the plan. If I survive today."
Another crash, closer this time, followed by angry voices. I work faster, my fingers flying.
